May 30, 2013 § 12 Comments
It was a bright sunny afternoon in Delhi when they met at one of these fancy malls that sell overpriced pints of beer and food that has unpronounceable names.
She was scared. She hadn’t met him before except at the workshop they did together where all they did was exchange pleasantries and later their phone numbers. And she hadn’t gone out with a guy three years younger to her. Ever. But life is all about taking chances. She took her, and fixed a meeting.
One glance at his face, and she knew that things won’t be the same for her. The curly hair on his head and the sly smile on his face made her heart skip a beat. He extended his arm for a hug and she melted.
Three and a half hours later, they’d eaten, bought books, discussed philosophy; he had read poetry to her, made her swoon, introduced her to Pink Floyd and neither of them could fathom how quickly the time passed.
She was right. Her life hasn’t been the same since then. Two and a half years, lots of discussions, pints of beer, more fancy restaurants, packs of cigarettes, all the crazy music, and Buddha happened.
All because they made their choice: the choice to not hold back from the other, the choice to spend time with each other.
May 23, 2013 § 2 Comments
Women are ever ready to bestow their heart where sorrow cannot but be their lot. They will either string their garland of acceptance for some brute of a man who will trample it under foot and defile it in the mire of his passions; or dedicate it to some idealist, on whose neck it will get no holds, attenuated as he is, like the dream-stuff of his imaginings.
When left to do their own choosing, women invariably reject ordinary men like me, made up of gross and fine, who know woman to be just woman, that is to say, neither a doll of clay made to serve for our pastime, nor a transcendental melody to be evoked at our master touch. They reject us, because we have neither the forceful delusions of the flesh, nor the roseate illusions of fancy: we can neither break them on the wheel of our desire, nor melt them in the glow of our fervour to be cast in the mould of our ideal.
Because we know them only for what they are, they may be friendly, but cannot love us. We are their true refuge, for they can rely on our devotion; but our self dedication comes so easy that they forget it has a price. So the only reward we get is to be used for their purposes; perchance to win their respect.
~Broken Ties, Rabindranath Tagore.
May 22, 2013 § 6 Comments
When I’m immersed in the present
When my eyes are clear
When I’m full
When I don’t need the other
When I’m my own friend
When words are not enough
When the search begins
When I just know
When words go dancing.
Kunal is one of the few honest people I’ve come across. I met him at an Art of Living session two and a half years ago. He is mastering Japanese while understanding life. He does not have a blog, sadly.
May 15, 2013 § 10 Comments
Prose is what happens when poetry cannot.
When a surging wave of inexplicable words takes over you.
When you are ready to look yourself in the eye without revealing yourself to the seer.
When you wish to drown in your thoughts and accept them, for once.
When you open your heart out to the reader and yet not let him read you.
When you cannot contain the depth of your depths.
When her golden brown hair leave a trail of desire on your bare chest.
When the ink from the pen spills even when you’re not writing.
When his naked skin touches your naked skin and sends shivers down your spine.
When the infinity of the sky is as meager as the abyss within which you dwell.
When the mere thought of him makes you soar.
When the wetness of words combined with your erect emotions makes you cum.
Prose is what happens when poetry cannot.
May 11, 2013 § 4 Comments
‘I came back from the funeral and crawled around the apartment, crying hard, searching for my wife’s hair.
For two months got them from the drain, from the vacuum cleaner, under the refrigerator, and off the clothes in the closet.
But after other Japanese women came, there was no way to be sure which were hers, and i stopped.
A year later, repotting Michiko’s avocado, i find a long black hair tangled in the dirt.’
Marriage is what happens ‘between the memorable’. We often look back on our marriages years later, perhaps after one spouse has died, and all we can recall are “the vacations, and emergencies”- the high
points and low points. The rest of it blends into a blurry sort of daily sameness. But it is that very blurred sameness, that comprises marriage. Marriage ‘is’ those two thousand indistinguishable conversations, chatted over two thousand indistinguishable breakfasts, where intimacy turns like a slow wheel. How do you measure the worth of becoming that familiar to somebody- so utterly well known and so thoroughly ever-present that you become an almost invisible necessity, like air?
Elizabeth Gilbert, Committed.